NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Round Two Entry: Grandma's Cooking

>> Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Once again, I'm involved in a NYC Midnight fiction challenge, this time flash fiction, so the works are all 1000 words or less. The over the top humor of my first entry didn't seem to work well for me (didn't place) but then they handed me comedy for my second prompt, set at a school detention and involving a pretzel. So I wrote, "Grandma's Cooking" using one of my favorite side characters from Saving Tessa. So, if you like her (and you will) you know where to find more of her.

Synopsis: For most people, grandma's cooking is the epitome of wholesome goodness. And then there was Dotty Miller.

Picture was totally stolen from FB so I don't know who to credit

     "Detention? This is a culinary school!" Chef Sharif crushed the file in his hands.
     "Well, yes, but we had to do something. She's already destroyed the kitchens on three floors." The school director looked distinctly sheepish.
      "Destroyed? In my culinary school? Throw her out!"
      "All the damage was paid for by a Mr. Chroz. And he bought us a show kitchen and wrangled a deal for a cooking show for our top students."
      "Oh." The illustrious Chef Ramon Sharif paused, then smoothed the crumpled file in his hands. "Cable?"
     "Network. Primetime."
     "Still, detention seems ludicrous and, even if it's not, why should I be involved? I started this school. I'm the great Chef Sharif! I just taught at Le Cordon Bleu." He sighed. "I'm not even over my jet lag."
     "Well, Dotty, er, Ms. Miller, well, it's very hard to stay mad at her. We have tried to be firm, but it hasn't taken well and no one quite has the heart for it. Given this difficulty, we were confident you could do it."
      Chef Sharif preened. He prided himself on his kitchen discipline. "As you will. Best bring me a glass of cognac and I shall deal with Ms. Miller."
      With that, he strode into Practice Kitchen #5. The director sighed. "I'll bring the bottle."
      Chef Sharif was reading Ms. Miller's file as he came in. "Ms. Miller," he said without looking up. "You are 62 years old? Doesn't it seem late in the game . . . ?" When he looked up, he just stopped talking.
    "But I must!" The apparition before him, tiny and willowy, clasped her hands soulfully, and rattled with dozens of chains and bangles and earrings. Her sundress and some sort of gauzy jacket were a brilliant mix of pinks and oranges, while her hair, floating about her head despite the white hat, was somehow orange with pink highlights. Her impossibly large cerulean eyes brimmed with unshed tears in a face that looked half its age. "I must cook or die! And please call me Dotty."
     Sharif tore his eyes away from her and back to the file, and then gasped at her amazing list of catastrophes, given she'd only been there three days. "You blew a hole through the west wing wall?"
     "A pressure cooker seemed a perfectly reasonable way to cook spaghetti sauce," Dotty insisted, tears gone like magic. "Though I might have had the heat up a trifle high."
     "And a fire destroyed Kitchen 9?"
     "I just assumed when they said, 'Sauté' it was supposed to be flambé. Perhaps I should have used tablespoons of oil, not cups," she mused. "Or something other than ice water to put it out."
     "And this, the oven in Kitchen 3 was been completely contaminated?"
     "Who knew soufflés exploded at high temperatures?" she explained
     "They let you make a soufflé on your second day?"
     Dotty placed a tiny hand (emblazoned with a tiger on its back) on his sleeve. "Well, no, but it looked so interesting, I wanted to try it. I might not have had the right ingredients for a chocolate soufflé."
     "What? Marshallows!?" Sharif closed the file with a snap. "You cannot," Sharif said in his sternest voice, "just strike out on your own. Cooking requires learning the basics. How could you reach an advanced age without . . . ?"
     Dotty's face was a study in crestfallen misery. "But I have to learn. When my granddaughter married my lover's son, my lover was left all alone. I must make something memorable for his birthday in three weeks."
    "I don't think memorable is the problem. . . Wait, your lover?" he said.
    "Hugo Chroz."
     "Of Chroz Industries? That Hugo Chroz?" His voice squeaked.
     "The one who paid for the damages?"
     "Yes." In a mood swing that confounded Sharif, Dotty's eyes blazed. "He said I couldn't be trusted in a kitchen. He barred me from cooking unless I graduated from cooking school. You see why I must succeed!"
     Her anger evaporated into tears that fell without restraint yet didn't impact her beauty in any way. "Do you think he can thwart me and get away with it? Are you on his side, too?"
      Well, he was, actually, but there was no way he'd say so with her crying like that. Plus, with Chroz so generous, Sharif couldn't afford to infuriate her either.
      "Well, you're here in detention, er, special class, to learn. What have you worked on today?"
      "Pretzels!" She was all smiles again, then gestured at an array of something . . .that didn't look like pretzels.
      He held up a blackened ball of dough and broke it open to find it gooey on the inside. "Why is it in this shape?"
      "Well, wouldn't it be more interesting in different knots? That's a diamond knot!"
      "And this?" He held a lumpy (Sheepshank) pretzel but couldn't bring himself to taste it.
      "Pretzels are so bland. I added habaneros and pineapple!"
      Sharif dropped it and rubbed his stinging fingertips on his shirt. He picked up an orange (Savoy) pretzel. "And this?"
      "Cheese!" she exulted and he bit. "And, of course, broccoli."
      Manfully, Sharif swallowed. "When did you say your lover's birthday was?"
            *          *          *          *          *          *          *
     As the dessert plates were removed, Hugo Chroz sat back with a satisfied smile. Their guests looked equally sated, and praise for the food was a frequent topic. "Dotty, my love," he said, "Thank you. Dinner was amazing."
      "But how did you get Chef Sharif to cater? He won't do private events. He's turned down the President."
      "I can be persuasive," she said sweetly.
       "I can vouch for that. But you didn't have any luck when you tried to get him to cater the kids' wedding, you know. You were so vexed."
       "Oh yes, but you know me, darling." She kissed him on the cheek and whispered, "Do you think he can thwart me and get away with it?"


"Poetic Justice" - another excerpt from Conjuring Dreams

>> Friday, August 21, 2015

So, with our political climate and the talk about sexism and the roles of women, seems only fitting I dust off one of my short stories from Conjuring Dreams.

Poetic Justice

    The secretary barely lifted his head as the door slid open, just glancing at the slim figure in the doorway. A glance was enough. He saw pilot leathers, scuffed and ill-fitting on the gangly body, close-fitting comm-cap and a mask across the face. Some of the pilots had taken to wearing the masks on the ground, unhappy, the secretary supposed with the unfiltered air of what they called "dirtside." Affectation, if you asked him.
    Apparently consumed by his screen again, the secretary said, "No one sees Prime Kaladan without an appointment. If you need an appointment," and the secretary paused as if that seemed unlikely, "you'll have to go through proper channels."
    "I have an appointment." The voice was absurdly youthful and the secretary looked up again at the large eyes and smooth skin. Why he was just a boy!
    "You're Pilot M. Cremden out of Pandora's Box? Lord Admiral and Prime of Havern?"
    "My father was Admiral and Prime," the boy answered. "But I am pilot of Pandora's Box, I am from Havern and here on her business. And I do have an appointment."
    "Is this a joke? Where's your father?"
    "My father is dead, sirrah. Faladian Plague, two years past."
    The secretary leaned back in his chair, instinctively giving the pilot extra room. He squinted at the youthful eyes, large and dark, above the mask. That was certainly plausible.
    Faladian Plague was a menace, wiping out whole populations with a particular genetic trait, that changed with time and venue. Once it was hemophiliacs. Another it was anyone with blue eyes. Three times, whole clans had been eradicated because the mutating disease chose something peculiar to their genetic makeup. It was postulated that it never quite faded despite its devastation and the efforts made to combat it because it would mutate into a form benign to existing genetic gene-maps and stay resident, sometimes for generations. But, when it attacked, it was virulent, it had a 100% mortality rate and the several year incubation meant that people were infected and infectious without ever knowing they were already dead or spreading death to others. Or both. Some of the planets in the Federation would never recover.  The secretary found himself grateful for the pilot's mask. Still...
    Wordlessly, the boy slid it under the laser. Pilot First Class, M. Cremden, certified pilot for four standard years, attested to by the father. Well, that was normal. Pilots learned father to son, of course, or apprenticed as the guild demanded. 22 standards old. Odd. He looked younger, his eyes...
    The secretary waved him to a seat. "You're early. You'll have to wait a few minutes."
    The boy tucked the card back in a pocket and sat in the chair indicated. The eyes were calm, but the fingers twitched and fidgeted, belying the outward calm. The secretary double-checked the scans from the boy's walk in. No, no weapons. Still, something was making the secretary uneasy. Something was just not right.
    "Havern, eh? I haven't heard of pilots from Havern for months, nor other word. Price of Latvium was starting to climb rapidly without fresh shipments. I hope you brought a big one."
    The boy shook his head. "Only a little. It's a one-man ship with only minimal cargo space, 22 metric tons. And some of that I needed for extra logistics. She wasn't made for long hauls and it's a sizable trip from Havern. Nine jumps."
    "One man? Why did you come alone? You're just a strapling! Why didn't you bring more ships or a crew? Bring us a real shipment. Your arrival will probably jack up prices even further..." The secretary squinted his eyes suspiciously. "Or was that the plan? The Federation takes price gouging very seriously."
    "We're not trying to manipulate the market," the boy said defensively. "As for why I came as I did, that's a discussion I came here to have with the Prime, not with you." There was an air of bravado on the last sally, underwritten by fear, as if the boy expected to get slapped back down for his effrontery.
    The secretary was more than happy to oblige and would have done so if the intercom hadn't buzzed. "Deeb, send Pilot Cremden."
    "But, sir—!"
    "Now." The word was implacable.
    "At once, sir."
    Secretary Deeb rose and touched the palmplate to release the door, then held it open with a bow. That bastard pilot waltzed through without so much as a head nod. Damn, Deeb thought, I hate those damn pilots! Deeb closed the door, careful not to slam it. Too bad a temper tantrum was not worth losing his job.
    Mina Cremden breathed out a sigh of relief as the door closed, trying to do so unobtrusively. Everything depended on Prime Kaladan's reaction to what happened on Havern.
    You think that, because you believe the lie, Linette said in Mina's head. You risk yourself for nothing.
    I have to try, Mina told her.
    You are too stubborn.
    "Well, Pilot Cremden, you have my attention. Did you plan to spend my valuable time staring at nothing?"
    "Pray forgive me, Prime Kaladan," Mina said, with a bow.
    The man behind the desk was older than Mina's father had been, but his green eyes were razor sharp. He studied Mina for a moment, then indicated a chair. "Kindly have a seat, young Pilot, and tell me why Havern has not been making shipments of Latvium. My secretary is right to be concerned, as am I. It is always interesting how a substance no one knew about thirty years ago can become indispensable. Your failure to keep up shipments is...disturbing."
    "It was the plague."
    "The Faladian Plague? Yes, I heard you mention it to Deeb. That is unfortunate. It's a wonder that no one on your planet sent any word."
    "It happened very quickly, within weeks. Every expert, every pilot, every communication technician, every doctor . . . everyone who knew how to do anything—gone. I'm the only pilot remaining."
    Prime Kaladan's eyebrows rose. "Everyone? That seems implausible even for the Faladian. What possible genetic trait did it target?"
    Mina took a deep breath before removing helmet and mask. "Y chromosome."
    She was prepared for shock, had steeled herself against it, but still she felt it like a blow. "A woman!" he gasped, rage warring with disbelief. "How dare you! How dare you enter this office under false pretenses!" He had leapt to his feet as if glavanized and stalked around the desk to glare down at her.
    "I had no choice," Mina said firmly, fighting the urge to prostrate herself. "I'm the only pilot left." She knew what she looked like. Dark eyes in a pointed face, hair cut close to her head. No artifice, no effort to be beautiful, which was a woman's duty, but she knew her face was unmistakably female.
    "You should never have been a pilot. Your father, he taught you? If he were not dead, I would kill him myself for the blasphemy! Women are forbidden from becoming pilots."
    "Yes, and miners and managers and technicians. Aren't you listening? There is no one else. We need help."
    "You thought you could come here and be heard? You have no right—," he hissed.
    "We are desperate, Prime Kaladan. We have done only what we had no choice but to do." Mina tightened her lips to try to keep the words back, but failed. "Once, women did the same as men, were pilots and technicians and engineers and even scientists. My father told me, before the first Faladian Plague when women were all but eradicated, women and men worked side by side. He said it was just—."
    He cut her off with an impatient gesture. "Your father was a damned fool! He should never revealed such things but to another Prime, let alone a woman. He did not deserve the title of Prime. And you come here as if we are equal . . . "
    "I came because there was no one else to come. Help us. There are none but women and a tiny number of men left. Send us experts and leaders. We are so vulnerable. If you would send . . . "
    "I send men and you women will just toddle back into your rightful place? You flew a spaceship here and you expect me to believe you'll return blithely back to your proper place? How will unlearn what you had no right to learn?"
    He bent over her menacingly and she slid from the chair to kneel at his feet, head bowed. "Forgive me, Prime. My father had no sons . . . "
    "Then he should have adopted, like a reasonable man! You have tied my hands, left me no choice."
    "We came for help," she despaired.
    "Oh, we will come for Havern, make no mistake. Latvium is too valuable to lie fallow nor can we count on the Havern survivors to die out naturally. Who knows if this poison that your father spawned has spread. What else to women take upon themselves to do there? No, it is too dangerous to leave things as they are." He tipped her head up and regarded her sorrowfully. "Pity. Despite your hair, you could have been beautiful, good skin, good bones, a fine addition to a respectable man's household. A possession to be treasured. Gone to waste." His fingers lingered at her chin. "I'm sorry."
    She never saw the blade that slashed across her throat.
    Linette gasped, her own throat seizing as her twin's throat was cut. Her fingers touched her neck, tears starting in her eyes. Mina!
    It was inevitable. She'd known what Mina would bring on her own head, just as she knew Prime Kaladan would call on other Prime and would build an armada to attack them, as anxious to eradicate any hint that women could be more than chattel as they were to help themselves to the Latvium. Still, it grieved her, just as Mina's death sliced her to the core.
    Prime Kaladan was right about one thing. The women on Havern would not return to their former roles. Thirty years under Prime Mendel Cremden had as much to do with that as the plague. Once they realized they could be what they chose to be, there was no going back.
    Oh, some still struggled with it, as Mina had. Linette's mother still cowered in her robes and mourned a world where she knew her role. But others had come forward to do what needed to be done, when the men were gone. They would survive until the next generation. And then things would be different.
    As for the Prime and his plans, they were as futile as Mina's had been. Her father had known how to build a defense matrix, and Mina lied about there being only one pilot. Linette was also a pilot. There was a sizable number of very serviceable spacecraft at the Havern port. And a likely looking group of pilots-in-training.
    Nor could Kaladan see past the threat he thought existed in the women to the real risk of the Faladian Plague he had exposed himself to and would expose those he called to his aid. He'd risk a galaxy-wide deadly scourge to put an isolated handful of women in their place. Fool.
    But then, as her father had always said, one couldn't help but be a fool if one deliberately devalued half the populace.


NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Round One Entry: Bloody Unicorn

>> Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Once again, I'm involved in a NYC Midnight fiction challenge, this time flash fiction, so the works are all 1000 words or less. My first prompt was fantasy (score!), set at a mountain stream and involving milk. So I wrote, "Bloody Unicorn." 

Synopsis: The injured dragon was not really prepared for his cure of unicorn milk, and certainly wasn't ready for the side effects.

     She slid her hand down his snowy shoulder and across his shimmering flank, then down between his legs.
    "Careful!" the unicorn said.
    "Sorry, Kevin."
    Gently but firmly, she milked.
    "Remember what I told you, Chloe," Kevin said as she left with her cup.
    "Thank you for everything, Kevin."
    Unicorns can't really smile but he tossed his head. "You bet. For you, anything."
    Careful not to spill the precious milk, Chloe tripped across the stepping stones of the icy stream before climbing the rocky grade to her mill, currently hidden within the brilliant (and noisy) coils of a red dragon, bleeding black blood from a long gash.
    "Bloody unicorn!"
    "Shush." She caressed him, stroking the iridescent scales of his face with a loving hand. "It's the venom talking."
    "It is not the venom talking. That bastard gored me, unprovoked!" He shifted painfully, but was careful not to hurt her.
    "Well, unicorns are the ancient enemies of dragons. Here, drink this."
    "What is that?"
    "Unicorn milk."
    The dragon blinked, one huge glistening eye and then the other. "I thought only virgins could . . . Sorry."
    "I raised Kevin from when he hatched, so I can approach him. He was a trifle miffed when he discovered you'd . . ."
    "Don't be! That night was magical and no one ever wanted me before. I know I'm not attractive."
    "Nonsense. You have lovely eyes."
    She blushed, then held up the cup. "Just drink this." He ventured with a tip of his forked tongue toward her cup.
    The tongue stopped, retreated. "Wait. What? Kevin? It's a male unicorn? What kind of milk is that? Are you trying to kill me?"
    "All unicorns are male. They give milk right before they lay their egg. It's not for the baby. The milk is to attract a caretaker and usually grows flowers when it leaks. Look, the milk is fine." Chloe took a mouthful and then spit it into the dragon's open mouth. "Just drink it. It's the only cure for the venom."
    The dragon closed his mouth, sighed, then swallowed, then opened his mouth again. She poured in the rest of the milk.
    She beamed at him. "I love you!"
    "Don't be silly," he told her. "Dragons are not monogamous. You're a dear girl, but I couldn't—wait, why am I so hot? Am I leaking?" He craned his sinuous neck to look but his flesh was already fusing itself whole.
    "No, you're healing. Unicorn magic." Chloe sidled up next to him and stroked his face again. "Also, unicorn milk is a true love potion."
    She kissed him. He tried to resist—she could feel it—but couldn't stop himself in the end and kissed her back with great passion.
    "Dammit," he panted with hot spicy breaths, "tell me the side effects before you give it to me!"
    Tears gathered in her eyes as she fought sobs. "Don't hate me. I just love you so much! Once you go dragon, you can never go back!"
    He glared, smoke curling from his nostril. "Bloody unicorn!" He licked her from crotch to face, then kissed her again. "Dammit!" Then, he ravished her willing body.
    Night was falling by the time she could catch her breath. She was glowing, totally sated, blissfully happy, curled up in the sinful friction of his scales. "That was incredible!"
    "It really was," he admitted. "If I am going to be tied to one person forever, I'm glad it was you."
    "Aw. What's your name?"
    He paused. "I forget. Haven't used it in a thousand years. Are you alright? I kind of lost control a bit, which isn't like me at all."
    She stretched languorously. "It was perfect. Dragons clearly have their own magic."
    He smiled with a wisp of smoke.
    "Oh," she said, "that reminds me. Unicorn milk makes any meat you eat poisonous so you have to go vegan now."
    The smile evaporated as the dragon's eyes widened, gleaming in the gloom. "What the hell?"
    "Sorry, I meant to tell you earlier."
    "Oh, hell no!" the dragon shouted and then was up and gone with three flaps of his huge leathery wings.
    She sighed. "I guess he does hate me now."
    The light was just pushing on her consciousness when she heard the dragon's return. She tumbled from her couch and ran outside the mill (only limping a little) and then stopped dead. "Kevin!"
    The dragon raised a talon to forestall her. "I asked him how to fix it and he said this was the only way. Then, he offered himself to me. I have to eat him. I'll love you forever but I'm not forgoing meat."
    She paused, composed herself, then stepped forward, stroking the magnificent head with its now dull horn. "Is he dead?"
    "Of course, first thing. I'm not a monster. I broke his neck."
    She sighed again. "It's for the best. He was always so lonely since there can only be one unicorn at a time. I think he wanted to die. Maybe this was all his plan, to get me my wish and his wish at the same time."
    "Using me. Terrific."
    "Oh! His egg! Did he lay his egg? I have to go find it!"
    The dragon lifted his head from the bloody carcass where he was feasting with obvious relish. "I brought it for you." He opened his other talon where a pumpkin-sized egg glowed like the moon it its palm.
    "Oh, dear."
    "I can't touch it. Only one individual can touch a unicorn, even in the egg. You'll have to raise it."
    "No way!"
    "I'm sorry."
    "Bloody unicorn!"


Why I Break a Lot of Rules

>> Friday, July 3, 2015

When it comes to writing, there a lot of rules. When to bring the plot to the forefront. What's important early on. Only use "said" not other identifiers. Avoid adverbs. Show don't tell. Don't write in dialect. Use complete sentences. Yada yada yada.

I'm not saying yada yada yada because the rules aren't important; I'm saying it because I don't think the rules are ALL important. So let me make it clear.

It is important to know the rules. For one thing, many of these are fine practices to follow especially (a) if you're just learning your craft and (b) if you are trying to write professionally - i.e. you'll be writing for markets where the editors are looking to see, first off, if you know your craft.

And, although I'm going to explain why I break many of these rules, there's a huge difference between breaking rules because you don't know any better and making a conscious decision to do something different. If you don't know the basics, don't understand how to communicate well, while you're figuring out how to do that and probably before you find your voice, you want to be very cognizant of things that will make you look like an amateur--and will adversely affect your writing.

Because, and I think this is true for most of us, writing is more than talent. Writing requires skills and you develop those skills over time. The rules provide a way to avoid many pitfalls you might otherwise fall into while you make the mistakes and learn from those aspects of writing the rules don't cover, because, that's the other half. Following the rules alone doesn't make you a good writer. Talent is part of it, too. Saying something compelling, descriptive, wrenching, thought-provoking - you don't get there by using the rules and nothing more. The rules are tools you can use to build your great work, but they aren't enough by themselves. And, if you want to know "The Rules," there are literally thousands of books out there with writing rules in them, some the same, others variations on each other and some unique to each author. I'd look for books that seem in keeping with authors you like so you can find a set of rules that work best for what you want to write. I won't recommend any because I literally haven't read one in decades.

I am, you see, a freak. I am self-taught, teaching myself writing by (a) reading both authors I found compelling (and trying to understand why I loved them) and authors I didn't like or even hated (and trying to understand why I hated them so I could avoid doing the same) as well as (b) writing - lots and lots of writing. Writing let me find out what I liked writing, what I liked reading of my own, what did work for me and what didn't. It let me find out what wasn't working for me and what was. Poetry, short stories, novels - each type taught me different things with some things I learned writing poetry spilling over to make my short stories better, more emotionally gripping, more powerful and from my short stories to my novels to make my characterizations more vivid faster and adding drama when required.

From reading and writing, many of the big rules out there I soaked up by osmosis. Others I had pointed out by readers and fellow writers. There may still be some I don't know, but I think I've got a handle on most of them. And, most of them I follow, though there are a few notable ones I don't. And here's why:

Sentence fragments - when I write dialog, you'll see a great many fragments. That's because normal people (other than myself) tend to speak in fragments rather than complete sentences. If all of your characters speak in complete sentences, they'll all sound like English professors and that's not natural. So I don't, though I usually have one character at least that speaks that way (a) because I do (so it's often a protagonist) and (b) differences in syntax, grammar and sentence structure can help differentiate different characters, can make them seem more individual and vivid.

Now, that would be fine if I only did so in dialog but I don't. However, since I tend toward third person POV, I'm often inside someone's head and the tone and phrasing are in keeping with the head I'm in. Also, fragments can be used very effectively for impact and for humor, both things I strive for in my books. Which is why this is most likely to happen in moments of tension or humor or stress.

So, although I prefer generally to write in complete sentences, there are times when I knowingly and deliberately use fragments.

Head-hopping - this is the pet peeve of many an excellent writer and I don't blame them. Now that I'm cognizant of this issue (and I didn't know much about it for years), I can often find it irritating myself. But, yes, I still do it. Here's why.

First, I didn't know about the whole POV third person because I mostly wrote in what I considered third person omniscient which is, apparently, very passé. I have since made an effort to understand who's head I'm in, to control my transitions and, in some cases, keep them from happening. I have at least one book from all one point of view (which is the preferred method) and another where it's almost all limited to two viewpoints and generally has nice clear transitions.

My other three novels, however, are largely ensemble pieces where two viewpoints aren't enough to get the whole story and, while there tends to be a couple viewpoints that get precedence, more are needed, even in close succession. For a purist, it can be pretty wrenching. I tried to limit the viewpoints consciously, but, when it detracted from the story, and there were places where it made things awkward or confusing, I didn't limit myself.

Identifier - He said, she said. If you've written things well, the dialog itself should describe the specifics, the muttering, the yelling, the whispering, the begging, the insisting - it should be clear. Overuse of identifiers (especially severe overuse) can be very distracting and clumsy. Many a newbie writer uses them like candy so flagrantly, they look desperate, though not as desperate as when someone with less than a stellar grasp of language misuses them where the dialog clearly is saying one thing and the identifier (possibly from a ill-fated thesaurus hunt) says something contradictory. So, yeah, this rule has a reason.

I'm not bragging when I say I write pretty good dialog - but I still sometimes (sometimes frequently) use identifiers.Why? Well, a couple of reasons. (a) First, descriptive identifiers weren't always off limits and I read a lot of (1) old stuff and (2) British stuff. And the truth is, the identifiers were often part of the humor, part of the voice of the author and, when the dialog wasn't strong (and some old stuff is pretty stilted), they were used to good effect. There are passages where the identifiers made it much better for me, added to my delight in a passage. It's a potential tool, particularly when you need exposition (to liven up someone's data download) or when the dialog itself isn't exciting because, hey, sometimes exciting dialog doesn't fit the circumstances. I don't throw a tool away unless I have no choice. My point is I've seen them used effectively and I know it can be done.

(b) It can be useful in conveying emotions and reactions economically. If I said "I'm fine," he groaned, I know he's in pain or otherwise stressed. I don't have to explain his face is creased or sweat is beading on his face, that his hands are shaking with pain. Within the context of what I've written, I've conveyed a great deal with that one word that could take me several other sentences to convey otherwise. Same with if I said, "I'm fine," she hissed or "I'm fine," she chuckled. Same words, but I've conveyed more and I don't have to explain it. I can just move on with my story. 

(c) Identifiers can be hilarious. I've both seen and used them to comic effect and they can totally be icing on the cake. They can also be used to reinforce your particular voice. I especially like to use them on throw-away side characters who we don't get to know but provide humor through their antics.

Last and not least on this particular list...

Adverbs, particularly -ly ones (you see what I did there?) - -Ly adverbs are a problem for the same reason that identifiers can be a problem. They can be used lazily when more effective verbs or adjectives could do the job. I can't tell you the number of times I've closed a book myself as redundancy and overly ornate descriptions and piled on adverbs (often poorly chosen) and other descriptors swamped me.  On page one of one recommended book, our hero was riding over the verdant green grass. Since verdant means green that was pretty redundant. Not to mention that, as a general rule, the green is implied with "grass" anyway. But I digress.

Do I still use more than the recommended dose of -ly and other adverbs? Yep and I'm not apologizing. You know why?

Well, I like them and use them for much the same reasons I use diverse identifiers: I've seen it in authors I admire, it's a tool like any other, they can convey things easily and without awkwardness (and I've seen people do some pretty awkward things to avoid them), and they can be indispensable when it comes to humor. One of my favorite authors, who is also one of the funniest I've ever read, used them comically to great advantage. I STILL can't think of the passages where she used them without breaking up and wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. Not saying I'm as skilled as she, but there are times when my particular wording using an -ly adverb tickles me because it reminds me of her, almost like an homage. And when that happens, or when I feel like the wording reflects my writer's voice, my humor or just sounds better (ah, those years as a poet), I'll leave it if it works for me.


Excerpt from "Conjuring Dreams" - Back Seat Driver

>> Sunday, March 22, 2015

Someone was talking about the technology, becoming available now, of self-driving cars. The concept reminded me of a short story I wrote some years back on the topic and published as part of my "Conjuring Dreams: Learning to Write by Writing" book (available for free from smashwords and several other retailers - see sidebar)

Back Seat Driver

    The lights have been left on.
    Stephen growled at the car and slammed the door shut with unwarranted violence. Through the door, he could still faintly hear the pleasant voice of the car's computer:
    As you have elected not to turn off the lights yourself, the lights will be turned off automatically. Thank you for driving a Xiver automobile. Have a nice day.
    Stephen was not having a nice day, however. He thrust his employee badge, emblazoned with the Xiver logo, into his pocket and crunched down the gravel walk to the house. As he stepped on the porch, a red light above another Xiver logo came on and Stephen heard a similar pleasant voice to the one in his car.
    Please state your business, sir or madam.
    "Mr. Bennet is home," Stephen said impatiently and squished his thumb into the ID plate. He moved through the door almost before it had a chance to slide out of the way.
    Welcome home.
    "Shut up," he told the door, dropping his coat on the hallway table and shoving his briefcase beneath it. "Rachel!"
    "In the kitchen, dear," called a voice every bit as pleasant as the automated ones that irritated Stephen so much.
    Almost against his will, Stephen's face lightened. Loosening his tie, Stephen strode down the utilitarian hallway to a dark kitchen every bit as practical. "Rachel," he said by way of greeting, "I can't take the house's damn voice any more. Change it tomorrow, will you?" He glanced at the mixing bowl in his wife's hands. "What's this?"
    "Dessert," his wife said absently. "You need it changed already? But we've only had this one a week!"
    "It doesn't matter how nice we make the voices, dear, it doesn't take long for those automated sounds to get on everyone's nerves." The scowl settled back on his forehead and he stared angrily into her mixing bowl. "That's why it's so damn frustrating that I can't get the personalities into the systems. If we could only . . ."
    "I'm sure you'll figure it out, dear," Rachel soothed, having heard it all many times before. "I had an interesting day in court today. Even you might be amused by this one. The man I was prosecuting . . ."
    "Why are you cooking? Rachel, we've been through this before. There's no point in having an automated house if you keep doing everything. I mean, you've had a hard day. Labor-saving means you get to stop laboring."
    "I like cooking," Rachel said gently, knowing where this conversation would surely lead.
    "I want a wife, a lover and partner, an equal compatriot, Rachel," Stephen said piously. "If I wanted a drudge, I would have just hired one, or designed one," Stephen insisted. "Dammit, Rachel, I did design one!"
    Rachel hid a smile. Stephen could certainly talk a good game. "Whipping up dessert once in a while is hardly drudge work. I don't even have to do the dishes. Heavens, Stephen, no dusting, no cleaning, no vacuuming. We're spoiled."
    "Then let the house do the work. Relax in the video room with me. If you feel you have to do something, you can give my shoulders a rub. You wouldn't believe the day I had."
    Rachel sighed and resigned herself to the inevitable. "I'm making cobbler and you know the kitchen always makes it too soggy. I've tried to reprogram the computer, but you know there's only so much you can teach it."
    "Don't I just!" Stephen bit out, just as Rachel had known he would. "Exactly my point! All the programming in the world, and we still can't make the cars drive themselves or have machines make coffee the way we like it! The cars know where the other cars are, where the road is, where the obstacles are. They can electronically read the road signs from a mile away. Hell, they know the traffic laws better than the cops do, but we just can't teach them judgment. And those pristine little voices! 'The door is ajar.' Makes you want to rip the voice boxes right out of those vehicles. If I could only transfer a personality into a computer, my God! You could have conversations with your car in the morning. You could explain in English how you like your coffee . . ."
    "And you'll find a way. You're the best computer man Xiver has," Rachel said patiently, sliding the cobbler into the oven. "You figured out how to copy a human personality into on persona disk, didn't you?"
    "That's just the point! Did I? Why can't I take it to the next step? I won't know what's on those disks until I can figure out a way to use them."
    Rachel gave him a placid smile and stroked a hand along his cheek. "I know you'll figure it out."
    The scowl evaporated and he caught her hand and brought the palm to his lips. "Rachel, do you know how much I love you?" Stephen glanced at the oven. "How long before it's ready?"
    Rachel grinned and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Long enough. The oven's on automatic shut-off."
    Stephen pressed his lips to her neck and then to her mouth. "To hell with the video room," he whispered and swept her up into his arms.
    Two hours later he sat, brow furrowed again, in front of his computer. "Damn!" he burst out all at once and pounded his fist onto his desk. "Why doesn't it work? Why? The programming's already there. All it has to do is take over. Maybe I screwed up the personality transfer. I just can't get mine to work. Maybe I could try your personality and see if I get better results." He ran a distracted hand through his black hair. "I don't know. Maybe it can't be done."
    Rachel glanced up from her briefs. "That's not something you often say. I don't believe it can't be done."
    "But I've tried everything!" Stephen whined.
    "What are you trying to get it to do?"
    "If you can get a personality in your computer, it's the perfect secretary."
    "And you're trying to get your personality into the . . . Do you think you'd want to be a secretary?"
    Stephen looked up at her blankly. "Hunh?"
    Rachel half-smiled and shook her head. "Never mind."
    "I don't understand you, sometimes," Stephen mused, brow furrowed before he remembered why he was angry. "You can't imagine how many times I've reprogrammed this computer!"
    "Maybe that's your problem."
    "What are you talking about?"
    Rachel put down her brief. "Seems to me as though you're trying to make a human personality think like a computer. I wouldn't think there'd be much point in that. Try taking out the programming. Just let the personality do the thinking."
    "That's ridiculous! If there's no programming, how would a personality know how to get things done?"
    "The same way a baby does it, trial and error, learning as you go. Trust me, Stephen, there isn't an automated system in the world nearly as complicated as the human body. An intelligent personality with data from the computer's information library to draw on and no sleep requirements can figure out any computer you give it in no time."
    Stephen threw back his head and laughed. Rachel's lips tightened. "Rachel, dearest," Stephen gasped out at last. "That's the silliest idea I've ever heard. It's a good thing you're a lawyer and not a computer specialist."
    Rachel rose from her chair and laid her brief in her briefcase before turning to her husband and saying in a hard voice, "You're right. I don't know that much about computers. But I do know about people, and one thing about people is that they don't like to be told what to do." She stared at him for a moment, her lips pressed firmly together. "I'm going to bed."
    Stephen had no chance to reply. Rachel's cell sounded with a priority message. Rachel glanced down at the screen and noted the address. "Homicide," she said in a tired voice. "I'll doubtless be a while." She shut her briefcase and walked toward the door.
    "Don't think this conversation is finished," Stephen said, his chin thrust out belligerently. "I don't know what got you so pissy, but I don't have to take it. We are getting to the bottom of it." What he really hated was seeing his wife dragged God-only-knows-where at every hour of the day and night, but he couldn't say that, could he?
    Rachel, well aware of her husband's thoughts, spared him a weary glance. "Oh, no, Stephen, this conversation is finished." The door slid silently closed behind her.
    Stephen knew from experience that he could never sleep while she was gone, so, when she had still not returned home at 3:00 a.m., he was still sitting, frustrated, in front of his recalcitrant computer. He was toying with the idea of taking a hammer to the ridiculous thing when the house's irritating voice broke into his reverie.
    Officer Foster to see you, Mr. Bennet.
    "Stupid computer," Stephen mumbled under his breath. "He's probably here to see Rachel, only she's not back yet." With a martyred sigh, he dragged himself to his feet and trudged to the front door.
    The front door slid open to reveal a uniformed police officer, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Mr. Bennet nodded briefly and then said curtly, "I'm sorry, officer, but my wife isn't in just now. She was called off on a case. If you just tell my house the number where you can be contacted, I'll have my wife call you when she gets back in."
    "Mr. Bennet, I didn't come to see your wife. It—it's about your—wife."
    Stephen's hand gripped the door frame with suddenly white knuckles. "What happened?" he asked faintly.
    "One of the perps had a knife hidden and someone missed it. He tried to get out using your wife as a hostage, but when she wouldn't move, he—he slit her throat."
    "Slit her throat . . . ? A perp?" Stephen repeated numbly.
    "That's right, sir. We couldn't do anything, but . . . but he didn't get away. He was shot and killed by officers present."
    Stephen's legs lost all their strength and he dropped to his knees. "He slit her throat," he echoed hollowly, then looked up at the policeman with over-bright eyes. "But, surely, she's not dead! Tell me you were able to save her!"
    But there was no hope in the officer's face, just pity and genuine sorrow. He had known Rachel, too.
    Stephen closed his eyes and whispered, "Where is she?"
    "You don't have to identify the body, Mr. Bennet. I—we were able to do that. Really, sir, we'd like to spare you any unpleasantness we can. Mr. Bennet, sir, I'd just like to say what a pleasure it was to work with your wife. We can't tell you how sorry we are that—that . . ." The policeman cleared his throat. "She will be sorely missed."
    Stephen looked up again, his face shockingly pale and his eyes glittering with a strange haunted wildness. But his voice was maddeningly calm. "You have no idea." With steady slowness, he used the door jamb to pull himself to his feet and, without another word, backed into his house and closed the door.
    He didn't come out again until the funeral. At the funeral service, he only sat there silently, ignoring the flood of well-wishers and mourners. He had eyes only for her. She lay there with an expression on her face so like the one she usually wore that he could almost convince himself she wasn't dead, that this was only a cruel joke, but he need only glance at the high-necked blouse she would never have worn in real life to know that she was gone.
    He would never stroke back her unmanageable curls again or lose himself in her shimmering grey eyes. He would never see her rise fluidly to her feet again or favor him with her patient smile. She was gone and there was an empty aching in his chest that made it so he could hardly breathe.
    He left before the funeral moved to the cemetery. He couldn't watch them put her in the ground.
    He drove back to his house, but just sat in the car in his driveway, unable to bring himself to go back into the house that was inalterably hers, that fairly screamed to him of Rachel and yet was so palpably an imitation. Instead, he sat there, gripping the wheel tightly with shaking hands, staring at his home—her home—as a cross between purgatory and sanctuary.
    His car did not understand. For your information, Mr. Bennet, you are currently parked in your own driveway. If you require assistance with the door, you have only to request it, and I will be happy to open the door for you.
    "I am not a cripple," Stephen blazed. "I can take care of my own damn door. Can't you let a man sit in his own car in peace, you worthless heap of scrap epoxy?"
    I do not understand these instructions. Please rephrase and repeat your request.
    "Be damned if I do," Stephen raged, ripping the control panel open with furious fingers and found the memory disk containing the car's "persona"—the phraseology and voice of his car. "Persona," what a joke. Rachel had had a persona, a personality, a God-blessed soul, and Stephen was damned if he was going to put up with less for another moment.
    With a savage jerk, he thrust the door open and dropped the crystalline disk on the gravel where he broke it beneath his heel. "Take that, you sniveling imitation," he snarled at the plastic-coated remnants. Then he slammed the car door and kicked it for good measure, leaving an impressive dent as sign of his temper.
    The car answered with a soft whirring, and the dent began to fill itself with the same teal epoxy from which the car was made. This only added to Stephen's rage. He kicked the front fender, but the car patiently began filling in that dent as well. "Dammit!" Stephen roared, ripping open his door again and fumbling in the control panel. "If I want to dent my car, I will and don't even try to stop me—Ah! There you are, you little bastard!" The car became eerily silent as he spoke. In Stephen's hand was the little processor cube that held the programming for the car's every function. "What are you going to do now, you crummy hunk of plastic?"
    The car, stripped of its voice and its brain, said nothing. With a grunt of satisfaction, Stephen slipped back out of the car and crushed the cube beneath his foot with a distinct chuckle of satisfaction. He left his car door open just because he felt like it and, reveling in the fact that there was no voice to remonstrate with his actions, he made his way to the house.
    And confronted another voice. Please state your business, sir or madam.
    "Mr. Bennet is home, you impudent door, so let me in!" Stephen snarled, jamming his thumb into the ID plate. He shoved through the door when it was only half-open and ran, full-tilt, to the house's control panel, muttering, "No more! No more! Dammit, no more!"
    His ungentle fingers found the control panel and wrenched it open. He plucked the persona disk from its slot and shouted at it. "No more! Do you hear me? No more! No more inane phrases that don't mean anything! No more programmed pleasantries! You're not a 'persona.' You're not any damned thing!" He stared at his tiny reflection in the crystal surface, and added in a faded voice, "You're not Rachel and no amount of programming can bring her back. If only you were, if only I could hear her voice again! God! If only—"
    The reflection's eyes became wide with shock, surprise, revelation. Strangely enough, Stephen brought the disk to his lips for a fleeting kiss, then tossed it unceremoniously behind the couch and sprinted to the library. There it was, in its padded sheath: Rachel, the essential Rachel. He had to get it to work!
    He took a moment to search for an unprogrammed processor cube and then loped back to the control panel. He set the slot expander to it largest setting to take in the larger disk Rachel still lived on and slipped in all he really had left of his wife. Then, with trembling fingers, he pulled off the programmed processor cube and slid the empty one in its place. If he wanted her back, he figured, he could at least do it her way.
    Slowly, carefully, he closed the panel and felt it whirr back into life. The house stayed dim, though, as he waited for Rachel to come back to life. She'd figure it out, he knew.
    And he waited. The minutes ticked by. Ten and then twenty. Stephen got up shakily and stroked his hand over the voice box lovingly. "Rachel," he whispered achingly. "Oh, darling, where are you?" The box was silent. Stephen felt the tears in his eyes. "Rachel," he pleaded. "I need you!"
    And the light above his head came on. "Stephen?" squeaked a tinny voice over the voice box. "Stephen, is that you? Why are you crying? And why do I sound funny? Where am I? I don't feel right, somehow . . ."
    But Stephen said nothing, merely pressing his face to the voice box and sobbing uncontrollably, managing to gasp out her name at intervals, but nothing more as he emptied much of his grief on a ghost he had made himself.
    By the time Stephen had regained control of himself, Rachel had mastered the voice box well enough to sound quite like her old self. She murmured comforting words to Stephen as he wiped his streaming eyes on his sleeve and waited until he was breathing normally before she requested a complete explanation.
    When Stephen, who had regained his businesslike attitude with his composure, had finished explaining things, Rachel remained silent for quite five minutes, which is a terribly long time for a computer. "I'm dead," was all she finally said.
    "Not anymore, not completely!" Stephen insisted. "I couldn't live without you."
    "Stephen, you selfish idiot, why couldn't you just let me go? Do you think I want to spend the rest of my—? Oh, dear, I haven't one anymore, have I? Trapped for eternity in the electronic bowels of a two-story residence." Rachel managed a weary chuckle.
    "No, Rachel, you don't understand! We can be together, forever, now. God, Rachel, don't you know how I need you? I'm lost—lost!"
    "So, I'm trapped in this damned house, with nothing to do but hold your hand?"
    "Rachel," he protested, genuinely hurt. "Don't you love me? My God, woman, I've given you a second life!"
    "Doing the dishes and regulating the air conditioning. All your talk about not making me a drudge and you lock my mind into a housekeeping computer. You call this a second life?"
    "You never talked to me like that before, Rachel. How can you say such things? Rachel, Rachel, how else could I have you back? Don't you understand?"
    There was a sigh over the voice box. "Yes, Stephen, I can understand. I can sympathize, even. But while you're getting to hear my voice and a clean house in the bargain, I'm in prison, locked in a house with nothing to do but wait on you and listen to you complain. I don't have my own life back, just that small portion I shared with you. Stephen, why didn't you think of me when you did this?"
    "Rachel! It's better than being dead!"
    "How would I know? I'm just a recording. I never died, and however lifelike I might seem, Rachel is gone. I could never be anything more than a shadow."
    "Don't talk that way, Rachel! Don't you love me?"
    "Rachel loved you. I'm just a mass of code on a disk. How can I feel anything? Though I feel like I feel things. I feel disgusted and used, and I feel tired of putting up with your selfish whining. I don't know. I need time, Stephen, time to figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my—my existence."
    Stephen stroked his hand along her voice box, a tear slipping down each cheek. "I never meant to hurt you, Rachel. I couldn't think . . . I only knew I needed you."
    Rachel said nothing for a moment. When her voice came back, it was much gentler. "How long since you've slept, Stephen?"
    "Four days. Since you—since you were . . ."
    "Go to bed, Stephen. You're tired and I'm still confused. Just get some sleep."
    "Will you be with me? Please, Rachel, tell me you still love me."
    "I'll stay with you, Stephen. I'll talk to you until you go to sleep."
    Somewhat satisfied, Stephen placed a kiss on her voice box and dragged himself up the stairs.
     Stephen slept for three days. Rachel handled, using only the tiniest amount of effort, the household necessities and kept an eye on the man in the bed. Tuesday morning, she blasted a squeal into his room.
    Stephen sat bolt upright in bed. "What the hell?" he gasped, thrusting fingers through his tousled hair.
    "Time to get up, go to work," Rachel said serenely. "The shower's ready and breakfast will be as soon as you get downstairs."
    "Maybe I don't feel like work today."
    "Oh, yes, you do. You wouldn't be half this grumpy if you hadn't played truant for a week. Besides, I can't stand having you around all day. I want to blast classic movie musical soundtracks all through the house and you know how you hate them."
    Stephen began stripping off very gamy clothing. "I don't want to go to work," he said petulantly. "If you loved me, you'd want me around."
    "Grow up, Stephen and take a damned shower, will you? You've equipped this house with odor-sensors and I can smell you from here. Clean up and have breakfast."
    Stephen shoved his clothes down the chute, but stomped his feet to the bathroom to show his displeasure. Rachel only laughed.
    When he wandered down to breakfast, he was much more presentable, but not better tempered. "I don't want eggs this morning," he complained, grimacing into his plate.
    "Yes you do," his house said agreeably. "Drink your juice."
    "You were never this pushy before," he said, eyes narrowed. "What's gotten into you?"
    "I don't know, maybe there's a certain freedom being dead. It's lonely, but there's a great deal to do if you've got the will to look for it. I can watch movies and read books I haven't seen in years and I've written half a novel while you were sleeping. No typing, no spelling worries, it just comes out as fast as I can think it. I can even send it to publishers and no one has to know I'm not a real person!"
    "Glad someone's happy," Stephen grumbled. "What about me?"
    "What about you? You're clean, fed, ready for the world. I'm talking to you, even though I'm not exactly certain why."
    The sulky look left Stephen's face and he looked wistful. "I wish I could feel you again, Rachel."
    Rachel sighed and said just as wistfully, "I wish I could feel me again, too. But if you design a stupid robot thing so that you can watch me move, the first thing I'm going to do is rip your balls off, so don't even think about it. Now, go to work."
    Stephen thrust his chair back with a screech of plastic against plastic. "Fine! I'm out of here. You know, Rachel, since you've been dead, you've been impossible to live with!"
    "So who asked you to?" Rachel said amiably. "Oh, and don't forget to go by our lawyers' office. You've got to sign some papers so you can get my insurance money."
    "I don't want the insurance money. I don't need it."
    "Well I want it. Maybe I'll go shopping."
    "Smart-ass!" Stephen picked up his brief case and turned to the door, then stopped. "I've screwed-up my car. I broke the programming cube and the stupid talking disk."
    "Oh," Rachel said. "Do you want me to order a new set?"
    "Hell, I can't take that damned thing anymore, and I sure as hell don't want you, while you're in this rotten mood, in the car with me. Besides, I need you for the house."
    "Thank God. I hate being in the car with you."
    "Damn, Rachel, when did you get this mouth on you? Hmm. I know! I've got me on disk, too. That should teach you, Rachel. I'll just chat with myself on the way to work."
    Rachel was silent a moment. "Really, Stephen, I think you're making a mistake. You really aren't the best driving companion."
    "Hah!" Stephen barked. "Don't worry your silly little circuits about me. I'll get along with me just fine." He tromped into the library and grabbed a blank processor cube and his own personality disk, then stalked back out. The front door opened silently without fanfare and he all but skipped down the gravel walk. She'd see.
    As he reached the car, he heard what sounded suspiciously like a giggle from the house behind him.
    It was the work of only a few minutes to install his personality into the car, but it was nearly half an hour before there was any sign of life, as it were, from the car's voice box. "What the hell? Where am I?" it croaked.
    "Hey, Stephen, you're in for a shock. You know that personality transfer I am working on? Well, it worked and you, or rather, I am now installed in my own car."
    "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard! Who is this and what's the game? What did you slip me? I mean I feel weird."
    "I'm Stephen and the reason you feel weird is that you are no longer in a body any more. Instead, you are inside a computer mind controlling a Xiver XTX-350 automobile."
    The car's camera whirred to life. "Hey, I can see you! Well, I'll be damned! It is me! You mean that really worked? I'm part of a car? Wow, get a load of all this. I can access all the traffic laws and I know where . . . Hey, what's the matter with my fender? Were you in an accident?" The car began humming as it began filling in the dents.
    The human Stephen blushed. "Well, no, I lost my temper. I was just sitting in the car and the damned car's voice wouldn't leave me alone, wouldn't let me just sit without pestering me with that stupid voice."
    "Yea, Steve, I know what you mean. They drive me crazy." There was a short pause. "Not that it's something I'll have to deal with any more." The car-Stephen chuckled. "What were you just sitting in the car for?"
    "It was right after the funeral and I just couldn't face going into the house with Rachel gone."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "Oh! I forgot you didn't know. Rachel . . . Rachel is dead."
    It took Stephen another half an hour to calm his car down. The car-Stephen, strangely silent, made almost no comment on the trip to work other than to point out the occasional oncoming car and to bark "Watch your speed, you idiot!" twice.
    Stephen, figuring the car needed some time to grieve, was patient and similarly silent. When he pulled into his parking space, he noticed the fender, although filled in, was wavy and mottled. Apparently, his personality hadn't quite gotten everything figured out yet. Give it time, he told himself firmly, rather forgetting how angry he had been when the car had tried filling the dents in correctly.
    All day at work, he kept almost breaking the news to his superiors. He walked to Davidson's office maybe twenty times, but each time he stopped, and he wasn't certain why. Finally, he decided that this thing was so big, he owed it to everyone to make certain it was a success before he advertised it. With this admirable intention firmly in mind, he muddled through his day.
    As he slid into his cooled seat, he waited to hear his own voice. And heard it. "Do you have any idea how boring it is sitting in here all day? I'm going out of my mind!"
    "You haven't got a mind, silly car. If you were bored, why didn't you access a computer library on a tight channel? You could have been reading or something."
    "And how long before that bores me stiff? It was a crappy thing to do to me, locking me inside a stupid little car. It's a crappy thing to do to anybody."
    "That's what Rachel said." Stephen shook his head. "But it's not the same for you. I didn't do it to you, I did it to me. You just happen to be me."
    "That's a load of bullshit. I'm in here and you're not! I'm bored and you've got a life. You gonna tell me that's fair?"
    Stephen ground his thumb into the ID plate. "Let's just go. You're in a car, like it or not, so you might as well make yourself useful."
    "OK, I'll drive."
    "Oh, no, you won't. I don't let anyone drive but me." Stephen put his car into gear as he spoke and pulled out of the parking garage. It wasn't a moment before car-Stephen made himself heard.
    "Slow down, you idiot! This is a school zone."
    "Who are you calling an idiot?"
    "I didn't kick in my own fender!"
    "Well, you didn't do much of a job fixing the damn thing."
    "Watch out, damn you! That, for your information, was a stop sign. Who taught you how to drive?"
    "The same person who taught you, you smart-ass ball of circuits: Dave, you know, your brother Dave?"
    "Well, you're an awful student because you can't drive worth shit! Oncoming."
    Stephen turned the wheel barely in time to avoid a collision. "Want to give me a little more warning next time?"
    "Pay attention and I won't have to," the car retorted.
    "I've had about all I'm gonna take from you," Stephen growled, making a left-hand turn from a right-hand lane, and narrowly missing a broadside from the car coming up on his left.
    "What are you crazy? You call this driving? You're gonna get us both killed!"
    "Shut up, you're just a recording on disk. You aren't alive."
    "I won't be if you keep driving. Watch it! That was a kid you almost hit! That's it! I'm driving!" The wheel suddenly jumped from the human Stephen's hands.
    "What the hell do you think you're doing! Give me back that wheel this instant!"
    "Oh, no, I've watched you drive long enough. Just sit back, you homicidal maniac, and enjoy the ride."
    "Look, I don't care if you think you are me. You don't have the right to—Holy shit! Did you see how close—? Oh my God!"
    "What are you griping about? I had plenty of room. I know what I'm doing! You just calm down and I'll have us home in twenty minutes."
    Twenty minutes later. "Yes, officer. I'm sorry, officer. I won't let it happen again, officer."
    "See that you don't," the policeman said curtly, torn between the urge to take this smart-aleck in and the desire to leave this crazy well enough alone. First the man had started cursing, but with his mouth closed as if he thought the policeman couldn't hear him. Then he went crazy and kicked in the car's control panel and ripped its voice box right out. Some people shouldn't be allowed to own cars.
    Stephen, meanwhile, glared with satisfaction at his car's ruined brain. He pulled out his pocketphone and called for a wrecker. He'd have a new brain installed and would welcome, with relief, the canned sound of those inane phrases. The disk of his personality, broken in half, hung half out of the control panel. Stephen knew an almost uncontrollable urge to set a match to it. Never again. It's a damn good thing he hadn't said anything to his superiors about this. The world wasn't ready for a pre-installed back seat driver.
    And most personalities weren't ready to settle for life as a computer brain. Rachel. He'd let her make the choice.
    It was nearly nine when he found his way home. The front door opened without prompting or comment. His coat fell unnoticed to the floor and his briefcase was God-only-knows-where. "Rachel," he whispered.
    The light came on in the dining room. "Come on in, Stephen. Your dinner's waiting."
    Stephen stumbled into the dining room, but ignored the table. Instead he pressed his face to the voice box and whispered her name again.
    "What is it, Stephen?"
    Stephen lifted his face and there were tears streaming down it. "How did you do it, Rachel? How did you?" he gasped.
    "Do what?" Rachel asked patiently. "Are you alright, Stephen?"
    "No. I just killed myself. I couldn't take me any more. I couldn't. Half an hour with myself and I break myself in two. How did you do it, Rachel? How? How in the hell did you put up with me?"
    Rachel's melodious laughter echoed from the voice box. "I warned you not to put yourself in the car. You are definitely not at your best when driving."
    "Rachel, I'm an asshole."
    "True. So?"
    "How did you put up with me? How did you stand it? Have I never thought of anyone but myself?"
    "No, I don't think so," Rachel said quietly. "In all the time we were married, you never asked me about my day, or my aspirations. You never wondered what I did as a girl or even tried to enjoy the things I enjoyed most." She paused. "But you loved me, anyway. You couldn't stand the thought of being without me. You never looked at me without making me feel beautiful and, sometimes, you even made me feel smart. When something wonderful happened for me, no one was happier than you were. You were never threatened by my career or my intelligence. We didn't always agree, but we did on the important things. You never tried to hold me back from what I really wanted to do. And you never let me forget that, in one life at least, I was essential. If I gave you enough time, you were even able to laugh at yourself. I don't really know why I loved you so much. But I couldn't imagine existing, even as a shadow, without you being here. If a memory can love, Stephen, I love you as I did when I was a person."
    Stephen took a deep breath and let it out shakily. "If you don't want this half-life, I will let you go, Rachel. Don't think I don't want you or don't need you. I still do, maybe more than I ever did, but I'm going to let you make the choice. Can you be content locked in this house with only a jerk like me for company or would you rather I put you back in your padded case and let you be free forever?"
    The house was silent.
    "Well? Tell me now, Rachel, before I change my mind, and I swear I'll leave you alone forever. It's the least I can do— Rachel, tell me! Please! What do you want?"
    "I want you to never feel like you're alone in this world. I love you, Stephen."
    "Can you . . . can you . . ."
    "So, I'll find new aspirations, new aspects of life to explore, like writing or accessing all the libraries in the world. I can watch movies twenty-four hours a day. I'll be fine. I'll adapt."
    Stephen stood there, quivering for a moment and then pressed himself passionately against the voice box again. "I never really knew you, Rachel. I never realized . . ."
    Stephen could hear her patient smile from the voice box. "Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me about Rachel, about something she did or was when she was a little girl. I've been married to you for eight years. It's about time I learned who you are."
    So Rachel told him, in her soft low voice, about a quiet little girl. Stephen lay down on a couch and listened, his eyes closed. He would never see that patient smile again or watch her rise fluidly to her feet. He would never feel the touch of her hand on his skin or smooth back her unruly curls with his trembling fingers.
    But now, at last, listening to a ghost he created, he began to appreciate the woman who had loved him and realize how grateful he was that he had managed to keep the best part of her intact.



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